


It Could Have Been Worse

by Wind_Ryder



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Birthday Party, Crack, Fluff, HYDRA Trash Party, beer pong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were five things that Brock remembered from Jack’s 34th birthday party.</p><p>1. The Asset really did have perfect aim.</p><p>2. The Asset was the absolute best at beer pong.</p><p>3. The Asset can be taught to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and repeat it ad nauseum in every language he knows for over an hour.</p><p>4. They absolutely could not tell Pierce about anything that happened that night. Ever.</p><p>5. After the twentieth cup of beer….he really didn’t remember all that much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Could Have Been Worse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/gifts).



> This is a birthday present to the beautiful and talented Lauralot. Go over and check out her work where these characters are lovingly borrowed from!
> 
> As a warning, I'm not very good at humor, or crack, so I gave it my best shot but it definitely isn't the best story in the world.

Brock literally had no idea how his life had come to this. He truly didn’t. The mission was supposed to be a quick in and out. It was supposed to be a simple shoot first, don’t bother asking questions, get the hard drive, and go home mission. It was simple on paper, it was obvious in practice, and the reason it wasn’t working was because some idiot had decided _now_ was the perfect opportunity to let their cows cross the road.

Brock sat, watching as the clock ticked minutes away, watching as their one window of opportunity sailed right past them - quite literally in a boat, and they were stuck on a hill blocked in by cattle. The Asset wasn’t even in position yet - another failure that had been the result of the unbelievable traffic patterns getting to this spot. They’d needed him to run there, and even he hadn’t been able to run undetected for five miles in the time it took their target and his retinue to board their luxury yacht and attend to business matters on the sea.

“God damn it,” Brock hissed, slamming his hand on the wheel and resting his head against it in frustration. The farmer gave him an unimpressed look, and Brock grit his teeth - glaring savagely at the man through the windshield.

“Target….lost,” the Asset reported over their radio, not even slightly out of breath. Brock could hear the tension though, and the uncertainty that the revelation caused.

“Get back to the safe house,” he snapped back, pressing his thumb to the button activating the channel. There was no point in proceeding any further. They couldn’t get close enough to the bastard now without drawing far too much attention to themselves, and the Asset wasn’t going to be doing anyone any favors if he got caught somewhere in the meanwhile. All anyone had to do was tip off their mark and this whole operation would be blown to hell - literally and figuratively.

“Now what do we do?” Jack asked sighing heavily as he shifted to hide his gun from view. Brock scowled at him.

“We go back to the fucking safe house and wait,” Brock replied.

“But…” Murphy cut himself off. He’d been quiet so far for this trip, and Brock had been impressed it had lasted that long. The kid was usually rambling about something unbelievably naive and Brock had to tune him out. So far, the only thing he’d truly had a fit about was when Brock had rounded the turn too quick and nearly hit one of the farmer’s infinite cows that just kept crossing the damn street. He’d shouted for Brock to stop and he’d done that, thank you very much. He’d stopped the damn car, he’d let the cows cross, and now they had missed their target, their opportunity, and their promised vacation days.

“But what?” Brock hissed, turning in his seat to glare at him.

“But what about the party?” Murphy hurried to get out. In that moment, Brock could have killed him. He really could have.

But there were at least one million cows surrounding their car and the farmer was still scowling at them, and Brock could do absolutely nothing except turn right back around and sulk in his seat as he waited. “The party is fucking cancelled,” he growled out.

Murphy didn’t say anything else.

Thank fuck for that.

* * *

 

The thing was, Jack was turning 34 in the morning, and they had had a party planned. It involved a copious amount of beer, the thrilling prospect of getting laid, and a great deal of loud music combined with  junk food that would kill them faster than their jobs would.

Jack’s parties were often times things to be admired and only his closest friends were ever invited. Brock half suspected Pierce knew full well their mission was going to conflict with the party, and a part of him wanted to blame the crotchety bastard for the fact their party was cancelled. However that would be undignified, and disrespectful, and he wouldn’t ever say something like that about their esteemed leader.

Still, Jack’s birthday was a popular event, and they were going to miss it. Everyone collected back at the safehouse and they were all showing varying levels of irritation. Jack’s hackles were raised, Westfahl was sprawled across a chair with his arms crossed and his expression surly, Anders was openly dissatisfied, and Murphy looked like someone had kicked his cat (or had actually run over one of those damn bovines). The only one of them that showed any sense of decorum at all was the Asset.

He was standing almost listlessly at attention, waiting patiently for one of them to tell him he could stand down. He’d removed his gear and set it neatly on the table like he always did, and aside from flicking his eyes from each of them every so often, he stood perfectly motionless. He was tense, and clearly expecting a reprimand for the failed mission, but it wasn’t his fault anymore than it was Brock’s and he was too irritated at the moment to care about proper procedures.

This mission had been a milk run, and it was a literal milk run that screwed it to hell and Brock could not believe that this was what it had all come down to.

“Meyer's scheduled to come back in at dawn, that gives us twelve hours to come up with a plan,” he said sharply, pacing from one side of the safe house to the other.

“I have a plan,” Westfahl suggested. “We get a few cases of beer and we spend those twelve hours doing what we should have been doing all along.”

“Dammit Westfahl, that’s not an option so why don’t you-”

“Well I think it’s an option,” Westfahl replied unhappily.

“We can’t have a party on a mission.”

“Why not?”

“Because-”

“I like this idea,” Jack decreed, crossing his arms over his chest. Brock couldn’t believe this. He really couldn’t. He stared at his friend. His best friend. His partner. He stared at him, and Jack stared back, and he could actually feel himself starting to give in. “What are we going to do for the next twelve hours?” Jack pressed.

“Plan for-”

“Nothing. We know where he’ll be, we know how long it’ll take. We know everything we need to know, he just isn’t where he needs to be. So what’s the problem with doing the party now?”

“We’re on a mission,” Brock explained, willing Jack to let it go just this once. Jack lifted one brown eyebrow, and waited him out.

“I can bake a cake,” Murphy suggested. Brock turned to look at him. He’d actually raised his hand as he’d said it, holding it up in the air as though it was going to make this decision any easier. Over his shoulder, the Asset was still waiting for one of them to tell him how to proceed. Anders seemed perfectly content with the change of events as well, and Brock groaned.

They were going to do this. They really were. God damn it.

* * *

 

Murphy could indeed bake a cake. He and Anders went out to the store and returned with beer, something that looked vaguely like fried finger food, and an armful of cake supplies. “Why didn’t you just _buy_ a cake?” he dared to ask before Murphy shoved him out of the kitchen.

“None of them were vegan,” Anders replied with a straight face. Brock could feel his head start to throb.

He left Murphy to it. Him and his endless amount of cake supplies that covered the safehouse countertop. Westfahl had taken his cell phone and turned the music up as loud is it would go- settling it into a cup so that it amplified it through the room abysmally.

Someone had told the Asset to stand down, and he was tucked up in one of the corners, watching them all with a pinched brow and a frown on his face as though he couldn’t make out exactly what the purpose of any of this was to begin with.

Ignoring him for now, Brock glanced towards Jack who was nodding his head in time with the beat and holding a beer in each hand. He passed one of the beers for Brock to take, and he popped the cap, slurping down the beverage.

“We’re going to be in so much trouble when this over,” Brock warned. Jack grinned.

“Sure,” he agreed. “But it’s going to be worth it.”

“Come on, let’s get beer pong going,” Westfahl shouted above the meager volume of his iphone. Brock rolled his eyes and helped him set up the cups and the table. Anders watched them like a shark, and after they were done pouring she nodded her head in satisfaction.

“Teams of two?” she asked sweetly.

“There’s an odd number of us,” Brock replied just as sweetly.

“Not if the Winter Soldier plays,” she pointed out.

“He’s not playing,” he refuted.

“Why not? Afraid you’ll lose?”

“He’s got perfect aim, any team he’s on will have the advantage, and I’m not explaining how we gave the Asset a blood alcohol content.”

“So he doesn’t drink it, his partner does,” she shrugged. “We swap out partners after every three rotations. Easy.”

“Not a bad idea,” Jack cooed appreciatively.

“Yes it is. This is a very bad idea.”

“Come on, Brock,” Jack said low, looping one arm over his shoulders. “It’s my birthday.”

Brock really should say no.

He really should.

He knew better.

He really did.

“Please?”

_God damn it._

“Fine. But he’s starting on your team.” Jack grinned bright.

“Perfect.”

* * *

 

There were five things that Brock remembered from Jack’s 34th birthday party.

  1. The Asset really did have perfect aim.

  2. The Asset was the absolute _best_ at beer pong.

  3. The Asset can be taught to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and repeat it ad nauseum in every language he knows for over an hour.

  4. They absolutely could  _not_ tell Pierce about anything that happened that night. _Ever_.

  5. After the twentieth cup of beer….he really didn’t remember all that much.




* * *

 

“Commander?” Brock grunted and rolled over. Something soft and squishy was under his left ear and he liked it. He nuzzled into it. It was warm and sometimes it moved and that was okay because it moved just the right amount to be cozy. “Commander?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel his pulse pounding between his ears and if he slept a little longer, maybe that would go away.

“Commander?” the insistent voice wouldn’t stop. “Commander?”

“What?” he groaned, forcing his eyes open passed the stinging brightness of the sun. The Asset was crouched in front of him, combat gear back in place and blue eyes wide. He was kneeling so close, that Brock jerked back, head smacking into the table leg behind him even as his palm crushed down on someone’s - Jack’s - balls. Jack yelped and sat upright, and he faced a similar fate, head knocking against the table and compounding his already present hangover.

“What the hell-” Brock froze. “What time is it?”  

“0600,” the Asset told him. “Target was eliminated.”

“What? _What?”_ Brock pushed himself to his feet and nearly tumbled to the side the moment he was vertical. Jack’s long legs were sprawled everywhere, and now that he was waking up, it seemed like everything was just going to shit.

Brock’s eyes swiveled around and stared at the safe house. There was beer everywhere. Bottles. Fluid. Cans. It littered the floor and Brock was certain they hadn’t purchased that much to begin with. Anders and Murphy were sprawled across the beer pong table. There were pictures hanging off the ceiling that Brock couldn’t recall ever seeing before in his life, there was furniture up ended, and Westfahl’s iPod was now playing Frank Sinatra’s The Good Life, and Brock didn’t have any idea what he was supposed to do with that.

“What did you say?” he asked the Asset again, just to be clear.

“Target was eliminated, data secured.” He held up what appeared to be a hard drive carefully extracted from a computer, and Brock stared at it numbly.

“You went out on your own?” he asked, just to be sure how far off the range of acceptability they’d gotten.

“To complete the mission per your orders,” the Asset told him. Brock could see the indecision in his eyes. He could see the tension starting to form on his neck and shoulders.

“Did anyone see you?”

“No, sir.”

“Any other casualties?”

“Only the target,” the Asset replied.

“Brock?” Jack finally seemed awake enough to realize what was going on.

“The Asset went and completed the mission because we were so fucked up we didn’t realize what was going on!” he hissed. Jack blinked at him once, twice, then looked at the Asset.

“Good job,” he said firmly, then promptly flopped back to the floor and went back to sleep.

This was it, Brock decided. This was the moment that he decided he hated this life and everything in it. Good Job. _Good job?!_ _That’s_ what he had to say about it?

Anything could have happened. The Asset could have walked right out that door and no one would have stopped him and they all would have been killed because they were too drunk to realize what was going on.

But he hadn’t. He’d gone. He’d finished his mission. He’d done a good job. Brock nodded, hysterically, then walked to the kitchen. He needed a drink. If he was going to be expected to deal with this, he definitely needed a drink.

The Asset followed him, and Brock toyed with the idea of giving him a slice of Murphy’s vegan cake for a reward for good behavior. Hell. He really did deserve it.

His feet stopped dead inside the kitchen door, though. Westfahl was sprawled out on the counter, arms wrapped around the cake, his head using it for a pillow. It was squashed everywhere, pressing into his hair, his ear, his neck, his shirt. The side of his face would be absolutely slathered with chocolate by now. Brock stared at him, mouth falling open and incomprension blinding him.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” he shouted loudly, and watched as Westfahl jumped badly and swivelled. He was right. Half his face was completely coated in chocolate frosting and crumbs. It was in his eye, keeping it sealed closed. It was up his nose. It was absolutely everywhere.

Westfahl stared at him, then lifted a hand to his face to feel what was sticking to it. “Awe, hell…” Westfahl groaned before turning and slumping to the side. The destroyed cake had a perfect imprint of his head on it.

“I need a vacation,” Brock muttered and walked passed it. He literally couldn’t deal with that. He really couldn’t.

Digging through the empty beer bottles that were coating the floor, he eventually found one that was still full. He sat down heavily into a kitchen chair and motioned for the Asset to sit next to him.

“Okay,” he started. “Explain to me everything that happened, and do it slow.” The Asset nodded and began his mission report.

As he listened Brock made himself promise that no matter what - he wasn’t falling victim to Jack’s requests again. This was the last time. He wasn’t doing this again. He wasn’t.

He meant it.

Never again.

He took a sip of his beer. He was absolutely certain he’d learned his lesson. The Asset continued. And that was that.

Jack stumbled through the door. “Hope you had a good fucking birthday,” he told Jack the moment his friend looked over to him.

Jack grinned, smile stretching wide across his face. “It was the best,” he agreed.

Brock felt his resolve crumble.

Damn it.

He took another sip.

“We should do it again sometime,” Jack suggested.

“All right,” he agreed.  

_Well, it could have been worse._ He decided. _Pierce could have found out._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at http://www.falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com . I take prompts and love answering asks!


End file.
